


wild flower

by itsukoii



Category: The Turning (2020)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, quint is a bad man and gets miles drunk then rapes him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsukoii/pseuds/itsukoii
Summary: Quint's always been a man that Miles has admired; looked up to, even. Shadowed. He does what he wants; he takes what he wants. After yet another night of the stablehand getting Miles intoxicated, the boy experiences first-hand what it's like to be on the receiving end of Quint's entitlement.
Relationships: Miles Fairchild/Quint (The Turning)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to my fic! i've tagged everything pretty clearly but in case anyone would like a reminder, this fic contains explicit RAPE/NON-CON, UNDERAGE SEX, GETTING A MINOR DRUNK, AND TAKING SEXUAL ADVANTAGE OF SAID MINOR. if any of those topics triggering for you or makes you uncomfortable, please, do not proceed. this is a work of fiction and i do not condone any of those topics in real life. However, i am well aware that these are heavy and potentially triggering topics, and am warning all readers that they do in fact exist here, in case that is something you are deeply not okay with.
> 
> with that out of the way, please enjoy! after seeing the movie a few months ago, i came across a theory online talking about a suspicion of quint taking advantage of miles and thought it was interesting. so i wrote it. miles is fifteen here and i feel like that's out of line with the actual movie timeline/ages but whatever lmao

The world is hazy around Miles. Everything feels unreal, and the fifteen-year-old boy finds himself giggling boyishly without reason, his full, pink lips pulling into an unwarranted grin. A reddish hue backlights the various freckles he has dancing along his cheeks and nose; his face is hot, and it all feels... _nice._

The curly-haired boy only briefly registers the sound of the front doors shutting behind him before he's stumbling and giggling more, only to be stopped by a large hang wrapping around his middle.

"Easy, boy." _Quint._ It's his low, rasping voice that brings Miles back to earth for a moment, and the hand that's got him steadied feels like it's burning into him. Miles swallows.

"Sorry," he says simply, standing still and idle, swaying, as he waits to be told what to do. Because Quint's got him – Quint's here for him. Miles feels... safe.

They've just gotten back from the stables where the stablehand has recently started sneaking Miles out to at night, for booze. It's their space to let loose and have fun – but now it's time for bed, and Miles allows himself to be guided and eventually carried upstairs to his room, his lids half-closed while his head lulls against Quint's chest.

Something soft meets Miles' back, a gentle moan escaping his parted lips as he feels it. When he opens his eyes, he's not in his room at all – he's in Quint's, lying on his bed.

"S'not my room," Miles mumbles, hazy eyes glancing about. He rubs at them sleepily with his sleeve – with the sleeve of Quint's sweater that he had borrowed – as he adjusts to the soft lighting of the frankly dank, grey room.

The sound of a door closing and a lock clicking can be heard, yet Miles cannot register it, slightly dizzy from the alcohol.

He feels his jeans being pulled off, and he allows it. He couldn't do much to fight even if he wanted to – but there's no reason to. Miles is sure Quint is merely helping him change.

Miles shivers when cool air meets the pale skin of his legs, instinctively trying to curl up in order to keep warm – but large, rough hands are placing themselves on the boy's thighs, forcing him down. They're gripping hard – too hard – and Miles feels himself yelp, slightly, a small _ow_ escaping his parted lips.

"Miles." His name is said in a low, gravelly voice, wet and raspy and– _hungry_. It sends shivers down the boy's spine, and, through hazy vision, he watches as Quint lowers himself down onto the small boy's frame. His hands move from Miles' thighs to the boy's wrists, keeping them pinned on either side of his head, while the man's body rests between Miles' now-spread legs, the roughness of his clothing itching against the boy's sensitive skin. The grip on his wrists is tight and unshakeable, even when Miles attempts to move a hand free.

"Qu– Quint–" Miles murmurs, voice stuttering slightly. Why can't he move? Why is Quint pinning him? Why won't he let Miles go? "Stop..."

Quint doesn't let go. The haziness in the boy's mind begins to wear off as he focuses on trying to struggle free, but his attempts are futile. "You're hurting me..."

No plea stops Quint. No amount of begging. Miles' wrists are now held together above his head, a single hand wrapped around them, and it's more than enough to keep the weak, intoxicated boy from breaking free.

"Time for you to become a man, Miles."

_What does that mean?_

"Quint, please, stop–"

"Quiet, boy," the man snaps, and, out of fear, Miles obeys. He begins to feel a stream of tears trailing down his cheeks, and then he's being groped. Miles is unable to hold back the breathy moan that escapes his lips, and he can't stop the way his hips buck up in search of more of that sensation. _He doesn't want this._

His underwear is being pulled down. He's being exposed. He's naked from the waist down. He can't do anything. _He doesn't want this._

Quint's rancid, alcoholic breath is hot against Miles' ear when the man leans forward to whisper, "Don't fight it, boy." Miles can't.

He's being touched in a place he shouldn't be. Miles turns his head to the side, forcing his eyes shut so he doesn't have to look at Quint while he lubes up a finger with saliva before pushing it inside of Miles, earning a whimper and a louder whine from the boy. It's a strange sensation. _He doesn't want this._

Quint's finger is large, and it hurts, even with the bit of lubrication. Miles struggles at the wrists, but the man is too strong; he keeps Miles pinned to the bed as he fingers him, all while the boy lets out quiet noises of discomfort and whispers of _please, stop_ and _don't do this_ and _it hurts._ But Quint won't listen, and before Miles has even adjusted to the first finger, a second is being added. It burns, and Miles cries – hot, wet tears slip down his freckled cheeks as Quint touches his body in ways he doesn't want to be touched.

Miles keeps his head sideways, his cheek touching the bed, so he doesn't have to see what's going on. It's not enough. He can hear it – he can feel it. The squelch of Quint's two fingers as he opens Miles wide, the burn of if causing the boy to cry out, his back arching as he attempts to escape the sensation. He can't.

There's a brush to something inside of him that forces a moan from Miles' throat, his back arching with a jerky movement, and he doesn't even have to look at Quint to know his hungry gaze is burning into him. What follows the moan is a sob, even if Miles is gaining some pleasure – because it still hurts, and he doesn't want it.

Quint chuckles low above Miles, and it's a sound that disturbs the boy beyond belief. He sobs harder into his arm, and even when he tries to close his legs, Quint's body is there to keep them parted. To keep Miles exposed.

The third finger that is soon added has Miles crying out in pain, sobbing and writhing while Quint shows no mercy. The saliva does a poor job of lubricating, and the intrusions burn as they thrust, while the stretch of them is near unbearable. And then the pain is gone.

Miles lets out a long sigh of exasperation, every muscle in his body going limp as he's finally able to relax. He waits for Quint to release his wrists and move out from in between his legs – but it never happens. The boy cracks open an eye to see Quint there, hovering over Miles with a crooked grin, and it's so frightening that Miles has to shut his eyes once more and bury his face against his arm, smearing wet tears into the fabric of the sweater.

The sound of a belt being undone and a zipper being pulled down is briefly registered, yet Miles is still unable to move as he's still pinned, while his mind begins to connect the dots. He doesn't want to believe what his mind is telling him. He can't. Quint wouldn't– right?

"Quint, please, stop," Miles pleads, _begs,_ when he begins to feel the push of something thicker and hotter than a few fingers at his hole. "Please, stop, please– _ah!"_

There's no mercy. There's a small bit of saliva as lube, and Quint won't stop pushing in, no matter how much Miles begs for him to stop. The boy feels like he's being torn open, the burn of the stretch unbearable as he cries out in agony. His back arches off the bed while he throws his head back against the sheets, wincing, before sobbing. Whimpers and pained noises escape his mouth, and he's shutting his eyes so tightly he's seeing stars. _This isn't happening. It's not happening. It can't be._

It is. The pain is the realest thing Miles has ever felt, and when Quint pushes all the way in, the boy is choking on his own tears, spluttering and coughing, while Quint shifts the hold he has on Miles' wrists. He places one on either side of the boy's head; one hand on each wrist, caging him in as the man begins to thrust.

There might be blood; Miles doesn't want to know. Every noise that leaves his mouth is one of agony, but Quint doesn't let up. The bed creaks beneath them – the only sounds in the room being that, Miles' cries, sobs, and pleas, and Quint's low, huffing grunts and groans as he ruthlessly thrusts in and out of the boy, hands on his wrists, stable between Miles' long, pale legs. The man leans forward, burying his face in the junction between Miles' neck and shoulder. He smells rancid, and the boy has to turn his head in order to avoid it – though the smell is one of the least of his worries, as he's continuing to beg and whimper while Quint's continuing to thrust inside.

There's no concept of time in Miles' mind. He's still intoxicated, but it's doing nothing to block out the agony of Quint forcing himself into Miles and thrusting mercilessly. While it's only been a few minutes, it feels like it's been going on for hours. Everything is hot, hazy, achy, _burning_ – and Miles' dignity has been stripped of him. His virginity, taken by force. By a man he'd looked up to, no less; to a man he'd shadowed. All Miles can do is lay there and take it until Quint finishes, because that's the deal with Quint – he takes what he wants. He _does_ what he wants. Anyone in his way will suffer. Miles now knows that, first-hand, as he lays in Quint's bed and is taken advantage of. Used. Like he's no more than meat to be devoured, or a toy to play with. It's dehumanizing.

The pace of Quint's thrusts begins to pick up, soon, and Miles can only guess, _hope,_ that it's because the man is close to finishing. The grip on his wrists is tight as ever, even though Miles isn't fighting it, anymore; he's allowing himself to be used, his small body rag dolling under Quint's movements, while the man grunts and groans in Miles' ear.

Whether the pain has lessened or Miles' body has become numb in defense, he's not sure, but at some point, he begins to feel less, and all that comes out of his softly parted mouth are small gasps and whimpers; no longer the choking sobs and cries he'd let out earlier, though his flushed, freckled cheeks are still caked with dried tears.

Quint's groans become stuttered and his thrusts more jerking in motion some time later, and that's when Miles thinks he's reached the end – the boy can only confirm it for sure when he feels something hot and wet fill him inside, only to seep out of his hole in a trickle when the man finally, _finally,_ pulls out. He hadn't used a condom, Miles comes to find out, and he feels utterly belittled, _disgusted,_ as Quint collapses down onto the bed beside him.

Miles is motionless. His young mind cannot comprehend what has just happened to him – he's not sure it ever will. Rolling onto his side, Miles sobs softly into the sheets, curling up into himself all while he feels Quint's release leaking from his body. He's afraid to look, because he fears what he may see mixed in with the milky substance.

Quint is sound asleep beside him, making no move to clean the wrecked boy – and Miles cannot do more than lay and sob brokenly into the bed as, eventually – somehow, by the grace of something holy – Miles falls into a nightmare-ridden slumber, yet a slumber, no less.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uuhhh i wrote another chapter. i suppose i could've made this a standalone but eh, i was lazy, so i added it in as a second chapter.  
> like the first chapter, here there is RAPE and SEX WITH A MINOR. if that makes you uncomfortable and/or is triggering to you, please, do not proceed.  
> this is a work of fiction and i do not own the characters.  
> i hope you enjoy.

The sheen pelt of the stallion ripples beneath Miles' hand as he circles the brush against it. He allows his non-dominant hand to pet the obsidian fur while the equine stands still, save for an occasionally flicking tail and maneuver of the hooves. It's serene, Miles thinks; spending a calm moment with such a powerful animal. He pats the horse's neck with a gentle smile.

There are few sounds that fill the freckled boy's ears besides the chirps of birds, huffs from the horse, and the sounds of nature outside the stables. Miles is so in-tune with those sounds and those sounds only that he doesn't notice the entrance of another human until he's being touched. Groped, rather - from behind. A large hand is settling at the base of his ass, over his jeans, and hiking up, causing Miles to part his full lips in a gasp of shock as he's forced against the horse for a moment as his body tenses. He doesn't have time to look over his shoulder to see who's touching him before rancid, alcoholic breath is hitting his neck as a wet chuckle is leaving the intruder's mouth.

Quint. It's Quint. The man who has touched Miles inappropriately and is doing it again - but the boy can't do anything about it. He's afraid of what might happen if he resists, fights back - so he doesn't. He allows Quint to touch him, hoping maybe the man will lose interest,

but it's futile.

Miles knows what Quint wants. He can't _forget_ what Quint wants - not since last time. It's been the only thing on the boy's mind, and it haunts him. It haunts him every moment of every day.

But he can't do anything to stop it from happening again.

"What're you doing out here, boy?" comes the rasping inquire, wandering hands beginning to trail over Miles' hips while Miles trembles beneath the touch.

"I'm just- giving him a brush," Miles murmurs in response, circling the brush over the equine's shoulder to prove his point. Quint responds with an amused huff, and then one of his large hands is coming up to take the brush from Miles' hand before tossing it to the ground. The thud of it causes a jolt to run through the boy's body, and he's instinctively pressing closer to the horse as fear begins to course within him. He can feel the man's heat against his back, his larger form beginning to press against Miles' lithe, shorter one. The freckled boy is frozen as Quint's hands grip his small waist.

And then he's gone.

"Against the wall," comes the slurred order, but Miles remains still, afraid - he knows he should do what he's told, but he's unable to move. And then Quint's shouting at him. "Now, boy!"

The raising of the man's vocals startle the stallion, causing the equine to flinch, and Miles immediately obeys Quint's command. With eyes downcast, the boy makes his way to the side of the stall, his soft hands gripping the vertical wooden bars. His jaw is clenched and his body trembles, and then Quint's coming up behind him, pressing his form against Miles'. Miles can feel the man's erection.

Large hands grip thin hips and wander about, groping Miles in places he doesn't want to be touched. He's paralyzed as he feels the man against his back and his hands touching his ass, his hips, his waist and his stomach; they trail up to Miles' neck and the boy whimpers, his small hands gripping the wooden bars tighter while he feels the hot breath of a chuckle coming from Quint's mouth.

"It's okay," Quint hushes, shushing the quiet cries that have begun to leak from Miles. The soft talk is all a front, sickeningly sweet and a broken facade. The boy begins to quiet in fear of what may happen if he doesn't.

"Please don't do this," slips past his full lips despite himself, voice broken. _Not again._

It's worse when Miles is sober - when he's aware of _everything_. There's no numbness to his mind, his body, his sensations; Miles can feel everything, and he hates it.

The throaty chuckle that leaves Quint following the boy's plea sickens Miles, and he wants more than anything to escape. And so he tries in a moment of adrenaline and bravery - he begins to claw at the man's arms, attempting to wiggle free from the icy, rough grip, all while choked cries leave his lips.

But Quint merely laughs as his grip grows tighter, leaving what Miles is sure to be bruises at his hip and arms - and then a large hand is wrapping itself around Miles' throat, over his Adam's apple. It squeezes, and the boy chokes, coughs. Quint chuckles sickly.

Miles' weak hands now claw at the grip around his throat, terror wracking his body as he struggles for a lungful of air. He goes dizzy, movements becoming weaker by the moment, and then the man is whispering in his ear. Miles can smell the lingering alcohol upon his breath.

"Don't struggle, kid," he grunts, but Miles can hear the smirk in his voice. He seems to like it when the boy struggles - enjoying the opportunity to exert even more power over him. "It's not gonna do you any good."

Lightheadedness dominates Miles' awareness, and it's then he's nodding against the choking grip, silently promising he'll behave.

And then the pressure is gone.

The boy coughs and splutters, chest aching and burning as he struggles to siphon fresh air into his lungs. It takes a moment, but Miles soon calms, having no choice but to relax into Quint's presence, no matter how much it sickens him to do so. He has to obey. It's his only choice.

Soft hands grip the vertical wooden bars while Quint resumes his invasive touching, his crotch pressed against Miles' clothed ass while his rough hands enter beneath the boy's sweater. Every touch has Miles feeling like he's been infected with disease.

Impatience becomes clear within Quint when the man takes to unzipping Miles' jeans, hastily beginning to pull down the denim and boxers beneath to expose soft, adolescent skin to the stale air of the stables. Miles shivers and whimpers as the exposure settles in, and he notes with some discomfort that the stallion is still in the stable with them. Watching.

Miles can feel the scratch of Quint's beard at his supple neck and the heat of his rancid breath, causing a deep tremble to wrack the body of the boy. He chooses to focus on anything except the feeling of Quint, but it's impossible. His bare ass is against the man's clothed erection, and Miles' own soft cock is exposed to the cool air. The light, sparse hairs on his thighs stand on end, goosebumps forming at the base.

Miles flinches, his mouth parting in a gasp when Quint's hand gropes one of the boy's asscheeks. The flesh is kneaded, squished and pulled at, evoking small noises from Miles as his fear and discomfort grows. He squeezes his eyes shut as one of the man's fingers finds its way to his hole, prodding at the rim.

"Please stop," Miles murmurs, pleads, but Quint doesn't listen. He didn't before, he won't now - and Miles knows what will happen if he doesn't abide and keep docile. The man's large finger continues to prod before it abruptly disappears, but Miles doesn't need to look back over his shoulder to know Quint is spitting on his digit before returning it to the boy's hole. It's warm and slick, now, as it meets the sensitive, pink tissue of Miles' rim. Miles' features screw into a wince, burying his face into the sleeve of his jacket as the tip of the rough finger begins to breach beyond the outer ring. The saliva provides little lubrication, meaning there's a burn from the stretch that has Miles whimpering - but Quint is not deterred, of course. The man presses his thick finger in deeper, occasionally pulling back before thrusting in deeper than before. It causes Miles to jump each time the intrusion comes, his smaller body pressing against the stall wall whilst pale hands grip the wooden bars tighter. _Please stop._

Quint doesn't stop. His breath is hot at the base of Miles' neck as he's soon adding a second finger, and even sooner after that, a third. The man spits once or twice for lubrication, but it never lasts, nor does it do much to alleviate the burning pain of the stretch in Miles' hole. The boy supposes it's better than nothing. He cringes at the thought alone.

Every so often the collection of digits brush a spot within Miles that has a pleasurable jolt of electricity running through his lower body, despite the burn of the stretch, terror of the situation, and overall disgust he feels. The boy grasps onto this sensation whenever he's able, needing something, anything, to keep him distracted from this living hell.

Before Miles is properly adjusted to the stretch, the fingers are slipping from his body, offering him a moment of relief - until he hears the telling unzip that has him mumbling out strings of pleas.

"Please, stop, don't do this, please," Miles begs, despite knowing it's futile. He buries his face in his arm once again, beginning to sob into it just as Quint begins to enter Miles with something larger than his fingers. The stretch has Miles crying out, his lithe body not used to the feeling of being so filled, despite it not being the first time; but it is the first time he's feeling it sober, and fuck, does he wish he could be drunk again for this.

The man grunts as the head of his cock plunges into Miles' tight heat, wasting little time before beginning to bury himself further. Saliva being the only lubricant provides little comfort and ease to the intrusion, and so the boy is letting out body-wracking sobs as the fiery pain of feeling like he's being torn open takes over his every sensation.

In an act of silencing, Quint's fingers - whether they're the ones that had been inside of Miles, the boy is unsure - are forcing themselves into Miles' mouth, full lips stretched around the digits as his cries are muffled and excess saliva dribbles from the sides. He's being filled from both ends, and he's sobbing as the pain in his rear does not subside.

Quint has buried himself to the base, now, and is beginning to thrust. The force of his hips bucks Miles' small body upwards against the wall, his black curls bouncing with the momentum of his body. The man is ruthless in the way he roughly thrusts despite giving Miles no chance to adjust, and the lack of proper lubrication has the boy wondering if he's bleeding. It's probable.

If he screams loud enough, maybe someone will hear. Maybe someone will come save him. But he doesn't want to be seen in this state, does he? What if Flora were to run to his cry and see him like this? Miles would never forgive himself for traumatizing her like that, and so, he refrains from screaming. Noises of gentle cries and whimpers continue to spill around the digits in his mouth as he's fucked roughly against the wall of the stable, Quint's grunts filling the air.

"Such a good boy," Quint purrs in a rasping voice, leaning forward to deliver a lick to the back of the boy's neck. Miles pretends not to feel it, not to smell the rancidness of his breath. "So obedient."

The fingers in Miles' mouth soon slip out, strings of saliva and drool connecting to the boy's lips. He's relieved until those hands return to his throat, beginning to grab hold. Miles doesn't understand why he's being choked if he's not acting out, and fear once more ignites in his body as one of his hands weakly claws at the much larger one around his throat.

But Quint's just sick; he loves to watch Miles choke and struggle for air as he's fucked up against the stall door, all while the stallion remains in the stall with them.

Like last time, Miles isn't sure if his body goes numb as a coping mechanism or if he's used to the sensations, but eventually, he stops feeling. It could be the lightheadedness making him dizzy as a result of being choked; he's not sure, but he's feeling less, and that's all that matters to him as his body is ragdolled and fucked into like a piece of meat.

"Fuck," comes a hoarse groan, and Miles wonders what it entails. He hopes this will be over soon. _Please, please stop._

There's no stopping until, in a swift motion, Quint's hand is moving from Miles' pale throat to his black curls before tugging roughly, and then- and then the man is pulling his hips away from the boy and, with a grunt, Quint's cock has left Miles empty and trembling.

The relief of emptiness feels amazing, euphoric, even, until Miles realizes Quint didn't release inside - and the boy is positive he didn't wear a condom. Then a tug comes to his curls, after a moment of Miles forgetting there had been a hand gripping his hair. The pull causes him to wince.

"On your knees," comes the command, and when Miles is too slow to comply immediately as his body and mind are sluggish and fogged, Quint is tugging rougher than before, pulling Miles downwards. Miles obliges as tears streak his cheeks, his knees hitting the hay-covered floor of the stall.

Sobs wrack his body as Quint maintains a painful grip on his hair, and then Miles is face-to-face with the man's throbbing, wet cock. The tip is leaking, and its surface shines with saliva. The boy cries before it as Quint wraps his hand around his cock, pumping it, and it takes mere moments before it's expending a milky white substance into Miles' face. The shock takes the boy by surprise, and he wants to gag when some of the semen makes its way past his full, gently parted lips. It's foul. It's sticky, wet, and hot on his nose, cheeks, lips, and even in his hair; from his ass to his face, Miles feels beyond debauched, destroyed, _disgusting_. He cries some more, his hot tears mixing with the substance upon his freckles.

Quint chuckles a nasty sound before letting go of Miles' hair, and then he's slapping the boy against the cheek. It stings for a moment, and Miles jumps with a yelp at the harshness of the action. 

The man delivers a kiss to the boy's head following the slap, and then he's gone, leaving Miles alone on the stable floor. The stallion gives him a glance as he breaks into a fit of sobs, small hands clenching into fists as Miles wants nothing more than to scream - but all he can do is cry.


End file.
